


i (won't) crucify the things you do

by damselindisguise



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Punisher (Comics), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, M/M, Marvel 616/MCU Crossover, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22869934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damselindisguise/pseuds/damselindisguise
Summary: What if...?What if Billy Russo was a member of Frank Castle's team in Vietnam? What if they were best friends since childhood, and they fought together in the jungles? What if their fates were intertwined from the beginning instead of converging on the Punisher's path?~An amalgamation of the MCU and 616 canons- MCU!Billy copy-pasted into the 616 Frank's origin story.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Billy Russo, Frank Castle/Maria Castle
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	i (won't) crucify the things you do

Billy is too pretty for war. 

That's the first thing that Frank thinks when he wakes up most mornings, in the steaming hot barracks where the sun's already beating it's white-gold rays down on the kingdom of green and brown and crimson red that they fight across day in and day out. Billy is too pretty for war, with his sharp cheekbones and long nose and sparkling eyes and prim lips and white enamel teeth. Billy is not something that's been stained, somehow, by all the horror that the war has wrought on them; he's a perfect thing, a diamond absolute, that Frank wakes up to and thinks is too pretty for war most mornings. 

Not this morning. This morning, Billy's hair is mussed, dark strands falling in his face and his back is arched over the sink as he vomits, the aftereffects of a virus leaving his system having left him confined to the barracks for what feels like weeks, now. It's really only been one, but it's been hard for Frank, not having his best friend out there with him, even considering how hard the opposite can be, some days. 

Frank smooths a big hand down Billy's back. The gun-callouses on his palms catch rough on the hewn fabric of the other man's tank top, and Billy shivers at the hot touch of contact on his clammy back. He leans his forehead against the sink and spits a couple of times for good measure, trying to get the sour taste out of his mouth as much as possible before rinsing it the rest of the way. Frank is silent and monolithic behind him, a watchful protector that doesn't offer any words of pity. That doesn't bother the soldier; he doesn't need pity from anyone, not even from his best friend. 

What does bother him is that when he's done vomiting, Frank doesn't move his hand. He keeps rubbing Billy's back with an overly gentle hand, rhythmic and smooth for all the rough skin. His blunt nails bite into the nape of Billy's neck, and gently rub down among the cold sweat, a slight bite of chill on his spine when Frank repeats the gesture making him shiver again. He stares at his reflection in the crystalline drops of vomit in the sink, and then switches on the faucet and rubs his face with tepid water before scooping into his mouth and swishing it around.

Frank straightens up as Billy does, from where he was leaning beside the other soldier. The two of them have very little in common, outside of a coating of black scruff on their faces; Frank's hair is choppy, cut with abandon, and only styled by his hands running through it a few times a day when he's thinking. Billy's is carefully trimmed close to his scalp once a month or so, and he has carefully regimented the product he was afforded on base so that he can keep it combed neatly when it grows out. Frank is also easily a head and a half taller, one of the tallest guys in their platoon, and has minimally fifty pounds of muscle more than Billy does on his wiry frame. Frank is a hulking shape; Billy is a slender one, though certainly not waifish by any means. Finally, there's their eyes; Frank's are a chilly blue, full of electric energy, whereas Billy's are dark voids, unreadable and flat.

"Can you believe I spent our last week out here sick as a dog?" Billy chuckles dryly, turning to face Frank with a wry grin cutting its way across his features.

Frank frowns. "This is no laughing matter, Bill," he grunts, serious as ever. His heavy brow hangs low over his features, and his muted glare says it all, so Billy stops grinning and sobers himself before he pisses his best friend off too badly.

He glances at the door to the barracks, and, deciding that everyone is probably on patrol, knits his fingers into the collar of his fellow soldier's dark olive toned vest, blinking up at him. Frank's hands come up and wrap his fingers around Billy's wrists, fingertips forming these tiny electric spots against the shorter man's pulse that send his heart into overdrive. 

"Bill," Frank warns, eyes shooting over to the same door Billy had just considered. "This isn't-."

"It's not what, Frank?" Billy asks. "Not the time? We don't have any other time left. Listen, I'll brush my teeth real quick, and then we can screw around. Just this one last time, before we head back home. Then we'll forget that any of this ever happened, and everything will go back to normal."

"Someone could come in," Frank says, voice low in his chest, a baritone rumble. His eyes are on Billy, though, and the blue in them is fire-hot, so the shorter soldier knows he's already won this argument, like he has every time that the taller has tried to sway him to wait on their final tour here in Vietnam. There's no argument, really; Frank wants Billy as bad as Billy wants Frank, so that's that.

"No one's going to come in," Billy whispers. He turns to the sink and grabs his toothbrush and paste, quickly scrubbing his teeth and tongue and cheeks. When he turns around, Frank is standing by his cot, vest off and olive green shirt unbuttoned to his waist, only the back still tucked in. The sleeves are still rolled up, and he's toying with one of them as Billy walks over to him, wrapping his arms smoothly around the taller man's neck and kissing him deeply. Frank, for all his bluster, kisses back immediately, and tugs Billy against him with his hands spread broadly across Billy's lithe back, even as the shorter man's fingers slide into his messy black hair and urges him to tighten their embrace.

Frank's heart is slamming against his ribs. Billy's is, too. He's smooth where Frank is rough, shaved chest where Frank's is dusted with hair, and they fit together like puzzle pieces, Billy straddling Frank when they fall onto the bed and their hands lace together. Frank's fingers are thick and blunt. Billy's are thin and deft. They are the perfect instruments to complement one another, or at least that's what Billy's always though, and their time in Vietnam has only proven him right. The lines between them have turned blurry, turned from a pair of best friends to something edging towards more, turned to a brutal report from an M60's coughing cackle and the silent hiss of a blade through the undergrowth working in tandem, one drowned out so effectively by the other...

Billy loses track of his own metaphor when Frank grinds up against him, and he groans audibly. The bigger man clamps a hand over his mouth to quiet him, and he sucks one of Frank's fingers into his mouth and licks around the pad of it smoothly. He's taught his tongue to do the devil's work, during their time overseas.

"Fuck, Bill," Frank mumbles, his voice as warm as Frank Castle's voice gets, and Billy stops himself from smiling around the other man's digit before he gives the game away.

Frank's free hand fumbles their belts open clumsily, like the blunt instrument he tends to be; Billy helps him absently, fingers flickering in sparking motions across the metal clasps and parting the leather to either side. He desperately wishes they were able to do anything more than this, but he'll settle for blowjobs and hand jobs if that's all he can have, so as soon as Frank is dragging himself free of his standard issue boxers- olive drab, like everything, fucking everything- Billy lets go of his finger and crawls down to coil between Frank's legs and wrap his mouth around the other man. Frank gives a long, hoarse sigh, like he's been waiting for this for a long time, despite trying to argue with Billy that they really shouldn't do this today. Billy, as always, is proven right, and he's all the better for it, hollowing his cheeks around his best friend and going to work.

"Fuck, Bill," Frank repeats himself. Billy has learned that his best friend is a broken record in bed, which never seems to get old to him, for some reason. It could. It probably even should. All the same, no matter what, it doesn't.

Billy tries to take in every moment of what they're doing right now; tries to remember every minute detail, tries to commit to memory the way that Frank's hand goes from tentative and gentle on the back of his head to heavy and dominant in a way that he shouldn't enjoy as much as he does. He knows that this is likely the last time he and Frank will do this, after all; after today, they're going home, and they'll be on troop transports until they're stateside, where Maria and Frank Jr. and Lisa will be waiting for Frank, to whisk him back to the house they bought in the suburbs with his paychecks. He'll be sequestered someplace Billy will never be able to reach him again, and as hideous as it is, it makes Billy furious- so furious.

He brushes his fingers around Frank's base and pumps as he sucks, doing his best to make this the best blowjob of Frank Castle's life. If there's one thing he wants to do right, it's this; maybe, he thinks, just maybe, savagely, he'll be able to make Castle remember him forever as his best, despite that he'll never get to do this again. 

There's fever-heat in his motions, and jungle-heat in the crevices of their lovemaking, and sweat-heat building on Frank's skin. There's so much heat between them it's almost unbearable in the balmy air, but Billy weathers it and focuses on the cold fire of Frank's blue eyes, half-lidded, as they watch Billy take Frank into his mouth time and again. Eventually, those blues are hidden from sight as eyelids fall closed across them, and lips part to release pointed sighs and gasps- Billy doesn't hesitate to continue with fervor, not wanting to give Frank a single inch. He refuses to, in fact. There's going to be no forgetting this, he thinks, his voice blaring in his mind, there's going to be no leaving Billy behind once they return home, no matter what Frank might want.

There's something dark and selfish about that, but dark and selfish has never bothered Billy Russo a single time in his entire life, so he smiles as he sits back and wipes his mouth, watching Frank's chest heave as his arms lay behind his head, baring his all as he lays across his shed shirt and pants below his thigh, fuzzy thighs. 

Then, they get dressed, and not a moment too soon; the roar of a massive engine coming in hot alerts them that their transport is here to take them home, and in come the other soldiers in a steady trickle to get their things. Billy follows suit, and feels Frank looking at him, but refuses to look back just yet. He might as well at least see if playing hard to get can make this thing between them go on, after all.

~

Frank lends Billy his vest on the return home, because it gets cold in the transport when they reach the edge of New York. Billy wraps it gratefully around his shoulders and surreptitiously inhales his best friend's scent from the collar, 

"Well," Billy says, when they're standing across from each other in the airport, Maria and the kids a few feet away, leaving him keenly aware that there's no way he can be as honest as he wants to be, "it was a pleasure doing business with you, Frankie."

"You, too, Bill," Frank says, roughly, and tugs the shorter man in for a bear hug. His arms are heavy and warm around Billy's shoulders, and Billy tucks his jaw into the edge of Frank's neck, shutting his eyes and trying one last time to memorize the shape of Frank Castle's embrace, the feeling of his heart beating a steady thump against the inside of his ribs when their chests meet. He isn't done when Frank steps back, so it's an incomplete image in his mind, but he supposes there's no chance at getting a moment longer.

Without another word, Billy casually salutes, waves to Maria, Frank Jr., and Lisa, and turns around, pacing away.

He doesn't expect to hear from Frank for weeks, if not longer. He expects it'll take that long for the other man to manage to compartmentalize away what they did in Vietnam, but instead his phone rings seven days later on the dot and he answers it as he tucks it between his cheek and his shoulder with a side-long, "Hello?"

"Bill," Frank's voice says, gruff and serious as ever. "You want to get some drinks?"

Billy spends a solid five seconds trying to figure out what's going on. Is Frank having trouble letting go of Vietnam? Does he have too tight a hold on the dark things that happened, and can't release them any more than Billy ever could? That seems impossible, because Billy's always felt the darkness inside of him; it's only grown as a result of the things that happened there, so it can't be that Frank is having as difficult a time with it as he is. Can it?

Billy certainly doesn't entertain the passing thought that Frank wants to continue their arrangement from overseas. That would only lead him to suffering, and he prefers selfishness, so he doesn't bother.

"Sure," he says, after he decides it's been an inappropriately long time since Frank asked, and he hasn't yet given an answer. "How about that place we went on my twenty-first? You know the one, right?"

"How could I forget," Frank says, his voice not lilting, not filling with amusement, just a recognition of the history of that particular bar. Frank never thought that Billy's escapades were nearly as funny as the latter thought they were, so perhaps that makes sense.

"See you there?" Billy asks, instead of continuing with that train of conversation and potentially turning Frank off entirely to the idea of them getting together to drink and do whatever the hell Frank is intending that they do.

"Yeah, Bill," Frank grunts. The line clicks dead, leaving Billy to wonder what exactly is going on; he gets ready with this question in his mind, putting product in his hair to gel it into shape and spraying on some cologne on his wrists and his neck. When he feels satisfactorily prepared for the occasion, he locks his door behind him and heads down the street, walking the few blocks to the bar they'd agreed on.

He gets a paper when he arrives, and reads the headlines. There's a bunch more of the weird and wild appearing in the world, of late; a giant monster called the Hulk, a man in a suit of metal armor called Iron Man, a man and woman capable of shrinking to minuscule size called Ant-man and the Wasp... It's enough to make a lesser man's head spin. Billy doesn't think anything could surprise him, though, after learning about Captain America, not to mention the subsequent experiments, like that involving Isaiah Bradley, so he doesn't really react to all of the headlines. 

He's almost done reading when the door opens and closes and a heavy, cloying presence appears at his shoulder. He looks back and does a double-take at the sight of Frank standing there with his choppy mess of hair slicked back and his fists jammed awkwardly in the pockets of a heavy black leather jacket. 

"Frankie?" he asks, eyebrows probably shooting up just about to his hairline. "That really you, man?"

"That's really me," Frank says, and offers a hand for greeting. Billy takes it, gives it a single firm shake, and then lets go dutifully. Until he understands where he and his best friend stand, now, he's not making any advances too direct, especially not when they're in public and people can see what they're getting up to. The bar, after all, is not nearly empty.

"What happened?" Billy chuckles, gesturing at his fellow soldier as the other man sits down and waves for a beer from the bartender. 

"Maria got me a homecoming gift," Frank grunts, adjusting the jacket with a tug on the lapels. A couple of loose strands of hair he hasn't got caught in his slicked back hair shiver at the motion, and Billy surpasses a motion much the same. "She thought I deserved it, after everything I went through overseas, even though I told her that the house was good enough for me."

"Well, forgive me if I think that the jacket is the better gift," Billy says, smiling. "It's a damn nice jacket."

"It fits like a glove," Frank agrees, glancing at his arms, his shoulders. Billy has to admit that it does; it hugs his broad frame just right to accentuate his strong build without being too slim a fit.

Realizing that he's staring with a grin on his face, probably looking like a love-struck dumbass, Billy shakes himself internally. He claps a hand on his best friend's back and nods. "How are Maria and the kids?" he asks. "They've gotta be glad to have you home, big man. Lisa still a little asskicker?"

"She certainly kicks Jr.'s ass," Frank says dryly. "I'm half convinced she'd kick my ass, if she tried. She's got a bug in Maria's ear about going on a family picnic, soon, down to Central Park. She wants to go to the zoo after, see the animals. I don't know what animal is her favorite, Bill. You know that? I don't know my own kid's favorite animal. Not even her favorite fucking color."

"Hey," Billy says, surprised at the sudden turn. "That's okay, Frankie. You're home, now. You've got all the time in the world to get to know what her favorite color is, and what her favorite animal is. You can take her to the zoo every day, if that's what she wants. You've got the rest of your life to make memories with those kids, right?"

"Right," Frank sighs. His shoulders slump slightly, and he glances at the slighter man. "Thing is, Bill, I feel like I'm not their dad anymore. Being over there, it changed me. I don't remember how to be the person who isn't at war anymore."

"You'll remember," Billy says confidently. He knows that Frank's always been a fighter, but he's also always been a lover; intensely proud of people when they do good and intensely disapproving when they do bad, he's got a strong sense of personal morality and a love for humanity that Billy thinks is admirable, if unachievable for himself. Frank doesn't have the same inborn dark place that Billy does inside of him; he's a good person, deep down, and Billy is sure that that will always win out in the man that Frank Castle is, before anything else.

"You think?" Frank asks, gruff. He's eyeing Billy sideways, and his blue eyes are shining in the dim light of the bar, and Billy suddenly wants nothing more than to sweep his arms around Frank's neck and kiss the pitiful look off of his face. His best friend looks like a kicked dog, and Billy recognizes it all too well. He hates it.

"I do," Billy confirms solidly. "You're a good guy, Frankie. A good dad. You'll figure it out. Just give it time."

"If you say so, Bill," Frank mumbles, and sips at his beer before bypassing sipping entirely and taking a long, deep pull from the bottle instead. 

They make small talk and shoot the shit the rest of the evening, all the while with Billy dancing around the topic he really wants to discuss. By the end of the night, he's tired to the bone and he's slumped against Frank's shoulder when they exit into the cold night air at two in the morning, an arm slung loosely over his best friend as he takes in a few breaths to acclimate himself. He straightens up after a moment and scratches his jaw, where his whiskers are coming back in nicely after shaving upon his homecoming. Frank's own face is lined in a stubble shadow.

"I'll see you around, Bill," Frank says.

"Yeah," Billy agrees. "See you around Frankie. And, hey!"

Frank, having begun walking away, turns back around, one eyebrow cocked with questioning as Billy grins at him widely, arms thrown up in the air to get his best friend's attention back if only for a moment.

"Take them to that picnic for me, would you? That's a good start. That'll give you something to start with. The rest'll come naturally. Promise me that?"

Frank chuckles. He looks happy, and it makes Billy's chest throb in a way that's almost foreign. His eyes are shining, glittering, even, when he looks back up from scuffing his boot against the curb. He looks, despite all the hard good looks that make him handsome, for an instant, pretty. Too pretty for war, too pretty for Billy to consider him as anything but a perfect thing, a diamond absolute in this shit-stained world.

"Promise me, Frankie!" he says, before he can let himself say anything else instead.

"I promise, Bill," Frank says decisively, and then casually salutes, steps off the curb, and walks towards home, leaving Billy to make his way in the other direction through the melting remains of the late spring snow. A warm wind has moved in, bringing the final throes of spring to a close; summer is almost here. With it, Billy thinks, he doesn't know what will come... but he hopes, thinks, it will be good.

~

Frank's family is killed in the crossfire of a shootout in Central Park the next day at high noon. 

Billy doesn't know what to think when he attends the funerals for Maria and the kids, staring at the closed coffins and breathing between barely parted lips as he tries to remember, tries to commit to memory, what his godson and goddaughter looked like before this sudden turn of events. He'd been waiting to see them until things between he and Frank weren't so strange, had just barely greeted them at the airport. He had thought he'd have all the time in the world. 

He'd been wrong. The writhing shape in his gut reminds him of that, its crackling mass heavy not only there but in the back of his mind as well. He clenches his jaw and doesn't look away from the pictures of Maria, Frank Jr., and Lisa. He doesn't want to miss a single second, but he misses so much the funerals are over before he knows it.

The next few weeks pass in a fog, because he doesn't know where Frank's gone. All he knows is that all of a sudden, there are criminal bodies piling up in the streets of New York City, and they're referring to it as a war on crime on the newspaper covers. They're more right than they know, once Billy starts paying attention; there's a decisive angle to all of it, like a brutal attempt to quell an insurrection, an attempt to circumvent guerrilla warfare, that he would have watched employed in Vietnam with a kind of cool judgment. He thinks it's blunt, not calculated, and that's when he develops his theory.

Frank Castle is the one they call the Punisher.

Then, all Billy has to do is follow the gunshots, and, he's sure, what's lost will be found again. So he listens, and he waits, and, eventually, the sound starts to echo off the city buildings like ricocheting rounds. He grabs his jacket and jogs against the flow of people fleeing from the sounds spilling from the streets of Hell's Kitchen, pushing between a few passerby who trip and fall as they try to get as far from the fighting as they possibly can. 

Billy takes out his knife. It's a nice knife. It's weighty but light and well-balanced, so he knows he'll be able to use it effectively, as effectively he ever did when using a knife in Vietnam, which he often did.

He reaches the mouth of the alleyway beside the bar where the shootout is happening, and sights someone standing in the middle of it, shoulders heaving. He stalks towards them, flicking the knife around in his grasp, and stops short only when he sees slicked-back black hair and a matching black leather jacket wrapped snugly around wide, strong shoulders and thick, muscular arms. 

Frank turns and looks at Billy, a blood spray staining his features, and his grimace turns to a look of surprise before a scowl paints its way over his expression, lip curling and brow falling low across those striking blue eyes. The shadows don't allow them to shine. Frank shifts away from Billy, his back turned to the slighter man, and he catches his breath before he speaks. When he does, it's a quiet, threatening sound, like the growl emerging from a wild animal.

"Go away, Bill. You don't want any part of this."

Billy wants to say so many things, but he's not sure which one to start with. He's sorry? He is glad he's found Frank at last? He is actually here specifically because he wants a part of this, because, dammit, those were his godkids and Maria was his best friend's wife and he wants revenge? He has a dark thing in his belly that recognizes Frank right now and he wants to let it fly, all of it fly, but none of it does, because then another figure comes vaulting down the fire escape and interrupts, horn-headed and clad in deep, bloody maroon red. 

"No more killing," the figure says, voice a deadly tenor. 

"You don't get to tell me what to do," Frank grunts. "Not after you tried to let that PCP dealer get away with what he did."

Before Billy knows it, they're fighting; Frank moving faster than he's ever seen his best friend move before, and the devil-like figure striking out at the same time with batons the same color as his suit, they're dancing cruelly with one another, blows glancing off of each other as they each give as good as they get. It's a blur, and Billy doesn't see an opening to help Frank, despite being distinctly on his side in respect to thinning the herd of people who brought death to the Castle family that fateful day.

A gunshot rings out, and Billy jumps back; the bullet goes sidelong, but bores through the devil-horned man's arm in the process. He falls back, panting, and Frank scowls again, baring his teeth as he brandishes his gun. 

"Bill," he growls, "get out of here."

"You're coming with me," Billy declares before he can think better of it. Forget selfish for a moment, he thinks- this is Frank, and he wants to help Frank, no matter what form that takes. He is going to get him out of here before the distant sirens arrive and they throw his best friend behind bars for doing something that anyone would do, if given the chance, so far as Billy is concerned. 

"Fuck. Fine. Lead the way," Frank grunts, and Billy, knife still in his grasp, nods and darts out of the alleyway, listening to Frank's boots pounding on his heels. It's like they're on the runway overseas again, he thinks, and suddenly wild laughter bubbles to the surface as they sprint down the street, pouring over his lips in barking cackles until he's doubled over in front of his apartment building and Frank is staring at him like he's grown a second head.

"Sorry. Jesus, Frankie," Billy snickers. "It's just- I felt like we were back in Vietnam, for a minute there. I don't know what came over me."

"Let's get inside," Frank says, without further elaboration. Billy nods and leads Frank through the empty lobby to the rickety elevator. They get in, Frank's sweaty scent swiftly filling the small space, and ding up a couple of floors. Billy stares at Frank, the whole world feeling too fast. Frank's eyes are electric blue, and they flicker nervously as the doors slide open and they step out, striding purposefully to the second apartment on the right, past the utility closet.

Once inside the apartment, Billy locks the door behind them and finally takes a good, full look at his best friend. Frank's wearing the leather jacket, a pair of dark pants weighed down with holsters and a heavy belt, and a black shirt with a white skull emblazoned across it. He's heard about the shirt, but something about it is striking in person, the hollow black eyes staring back at him, composed of negative space, as he looks on. Frank's staring at Billy like he's confused about something again, and Billy can't imagine what. He's only staring like this because he's never seen this version of Frank outside of missions, never sighted Frank as a Grim Reaper wielding a hammer anywhere but the thick of the fight until now. 

Standing in the foyer of his apartment is something as close to divine as Billy thinks he probably believes in, and he can't take his eyes off of him. He can't look away from Frank Castle, his best friend, Frank, his Frankie. 

"Billy," Frank says, finally. Billy looks him in the eyes, takes in the crooked set of his lips, set downward into a heavy frown. "I can't stay here. You're my best friend. They'll come looking for me, and you'll get taken in with me."

"You don't have to stay," Billy says, coming down off of his metaphorical high and back to reality in an instant. "I'm not letting you go back out there tonight, though, Frank. At least stay here for one night. Just one night is all I ask."

"Bill," Frank starts, exasperated, one hand- clad in a heavy glove- coming up to shush across his features, his shallow whiskers. 

"Frank," Billy says, without leaving room for argument. He stares at his best friend, at his whatever-the-fuck they've become, and Frank stares right back at him before finally backing down.

"Okay. Fine, Bill. You win. I'll stay. Just for one night. That's all."

Billy breathes a sigh of relief, letting the weight off of his shoulders, the sky setting back in place and his spine slumping slightly at the lack of holding it up any longer. "Good. Great. I'll get us something to eat. You're hungry, right?"

"I could eat." Frank takes a seat on the couch, dangling his hands between his knees and peering around the living room like he's never seen Billy's apartment before. It has been a long time, but Billy thinks that's odd, anyway. He goes in the small adjoining kitchen and starts warming up a couple of takeout containers of Chinese food that he had left over from the other night. He'd got not only his own favorite, but Frank's, as well, in what turned out to be a stroke of good luck. He'd just been trying to remember what things were like when it was him and Frank, before Maria and before Vietnam, but this is better than that.

He delivers the food to the living room and wonders at how calm Frank is, after what's just transpired, with the shootout and the fight with the devil-headed vigilante. The bigger man takes his container and peers at it before giving Billy a questioning stare. 

"I got your favorite," Billy explains. That's all he's willing to say. It's hard enough to be honest with himself about how enraptured in his feelings for Frank he is, let alone actually admitting it to the other man in any way, shape, or form. 

Frank grunts and starts eating, using a fork and spoon while Billy uses chopsticks. Billy can smell not only the Chinese food, but Frank's musk, and the scent of the leather of his jacket hanging on the air. There's also gun oil, which is distinctly Frank, and has been since as far back as the slighter man can remember from their childhood. The Castiglione's owned a lot of guns, so Frank had done upkeep on them from a young age, so far back that his name was still Francis then, not yet Americanized- not that Billy thinks Frank has ever been bothered by being Frank, by any means. It's been who he is for so long that Billy sometimes wonders if Frank has forgotten entirely about Francis Castiglione, and only remembers himself as Frank Castle, now. Billy remembers both, but, really, there's no divide between them. Frank has always been the same man, no matter what he was called; and he's still the same man, now that he's the Punisher, too.

They finish eating, and Billy stands, shedding his coat and hanging it on the back of the front door. He turns back and holds a hand out towards Frank, who stares at him for a moment before acquiescing and handing over the leather coat. Billy can feel how valuable it is to Frank, and refuses to undervalue it; he hangs it carefully and gently on the hook before standing back and making sure it stays. When he's sure it's going to, he turns back to his fellow veteran. 

Straps on his shoulders are already shrugged off, hanging at his waist as he unbuckles his heavy belt and hangs it over the back of the chair he'd been sitting in. Frank's short sleeved black shirt is snug across his thick barrel chest, and worn enough that the neck shows the top of his hairy chest. Billy stares as Frank kicks his boots off and flexes his feet against the rug before glancing at the other man and jerking his head at the small hallway leading back to the bathroom and the two bedrooms that the apartment boasts, despite its rather cozy size. Billy nods, and watches Frank pace, stockinged, into the threshold of the bathroom, where he turns on the shower. The spray shrieks against the tile interior, and Frank doesn't bother shutting the door as he starts shucking his jeans.

Billy propels himself forward on feet he's not sure are his own, and he's wrapped his arms around Frank's before he can think better of it. His fellow veteran stiffens at the grasp, but turns when Billy tugs on him, and then they're facing each other as thin, deft hands land on a strong chest, feeling a rabbit's pace heartbeat slowing to steady out within. Frank stares at Billy, expression unreadable as they hover in place, coalescing at the edges. Billy's skin is chilly from the night air. Frank is running hot from the fight. The shower is filling the room with faint curls of steam. 

"Do you...?" Billy starts, and he thinks it's probably a sin, probably a horrible thing to ask, this, so he doesn't finish asking. He just trails off, and watches Frank nod stonily before stripping his shirt over his head. He smells of sour sweat and gun oil and the leftover remnants of leather on his skin, and Billy thinks it's probably the best scent he's ever smelled. He steps closer to Frank, who's wearing those damn standard issue olive drab boxers despite the rest of his uniform being the Punisher's now. They're starting to tent, and that's how Billy knows for sure that Frank wants this, that he's not just agreeing to sate Billy's desires. He hasn't even touched the other man yet, and here they are anyway, across from each other, with the slighter man so hard he hurts in his jeans.

Frank watches as Billy undresses, and then they're standing across from each other. Billy's got on black satin boxers he bought at a department store because he liked the sound of the luxury of them. He's not sure what Frank is going to think of that, but he doesn't say a word, so the shorter supposes the other man doesn't care.

Billy watches Frank step into the shower, stripping off his boxers and then standing there, broad and monolithic, waiting for his fellow to join him in the small space. Billy gladly does, stepping lithely under the hot water and then drawing Frank close to him with hands framing his shoulders, his waist. The taller man steps in until they're flush to one another, and Billy mouths across the edge of his jaw until Frank's lips part and they kiss deeply.

Frank feels like he's about to fall apart, Billy thinks. He feels like there's holes in him all over, like there's cracks spreading through his stony exterior and in only moments they will shatter his best friend- his only friend in the world, maybe, just maybe.

So Billy makes the only decision he can, and takes Frank in his hand, gently pumping as he kisses the taller man, standing half on his tip-toes, his free arm wrapped loosely around the back of the broad man's neck. Frank grunts softly into their embrace, and plants a hand on either side of the shower when Billy sinks to his knees and takes Frank into his mouth a moment later. He hollows his cheeks like he always used to and lets his eyes flutter softly as he sucks slowly up and down Frank's length. 

Frank looks at the shower shelf, and grabs a bottle hesitantly, weighing it in his hands before tucking a thumb, blunt and wide, under Billy's jaw and tilting his face up as he pops off of the end of the bigger man, lips wet with spit and red with needful feeling. He shows him the bottle wordlessly- it's lube, and Billy feels like there's a balloon in his chest, realizing what Frank means. There's nothing holding them back anymore, no barracks, no lacking supplies, no nothing to keep them from another, and as horrible as it is, he feels like soaring. He'll worry about the rest tomorrow, he decides, and takes the bottle, popping the cap open and pouring a supple amount over his and Frank's fingers. 

Frank slicks himself as Billy works his fingers in and out of his own entrance, remembering all the times since Vietnam that he's done this and imagined that it was the other man touching him. He'd done it every night that first week, and has shamefully done it in spells since then, too, all the while wondering where Frank was. Billy lets his eyes fall closed as he realizes that soon he won't be imagining- it will be for real.

Then, Frank's hand lands on Billy's wrist, and his fingers are tiny electric spots against the pulse there that send it skyrocketing again, like they always have. He gently tugs, and Billy finishes preparing himself, turning around and rinsing his hands as he plants them against the shower wall, painting hot water across his palms. Frank's own palms, gun-calloused and rough as ever, catch on Billy's soft hips as he takes ahold of him from behind and aligns their bodies. When he thrusts forward, for a moment it is blinding; Billy feels spread open as wide as he's ever been by Frank's considerable girth, and then the burning fades and he just feels full and right.

They fit together like puzzle pieces. They are the perfect instruments to complement each other, and Billy wants nothing more.

~

Frank has never had trouble sleeping once it was time to sleep, so Billy isn't surprised when Frank falls into a slumber quickly after they reach the bed. He lays his head on the corner of Frank's chest and splays the rest of his slender body across the bed, coiling one arm under the bigger man's back and wrapping a leg around a thicker one for good measure, as if to bind them together, despite knowing that, against all hope, the other will leave come morning. He's already promised it, or at least as good as.

When morning does come, it's frustratingly bright. It should be all clouds, overcast and dreary, but instead the sun is out, shining pale white-gold onto the street outside and painting the world in brightened drab colors. Frank wakes up at the crack of dawn and uncoils himself from Billy only minutes later, standing and walking to the hall to pop his back and then brush his teeth. He uses Billy's toothbrush. The slighter man supposes that he really doesn't care either way, so he doesn't protest, just lays there and watches across the tiny hall from within the bedroom. When Frank is done with that, he dresses in the rest of his clothes again, save for his leather jacket.

He doesn't put that on until he's eaten a bowl of Billy's cereal with a healthy pour of milk over it. Billy watches him eat this in big mouthfuls, chewing loudly and barely looking up from the bowl. He can barely stand it, though, when Frank dons the jacket, wrapping it around his shoulders after sliding the straps for his gun holsters over his shoulders again and pulling them tight against the broad muscle of his chest.

Billy Russo is not a man to beg, though, so he refuses to say anything to the contrary when Frank grunts and turns, offering a hand in Billy's direction. He takes the proffered appendage and shakes it a single time, a farewell in the gesture, and then opens the door for Frank and watches the Punisher exit his apartment, zipping that leather jacket over the skull to hide it from sight as he walks to the elevator and climbs in. 

It dings when the doors close, and Billy shuts his door without waiting to see if Frank comes back.

He knows he will. It's just, as it always is with them, a matter of time.

**Author's Note:**

> ((A/N: This idea struck me and I had to write it up, so there you have it! Hope you enjoyed! This is my first time writing 616 Frank or MCU Billy, so hopefully I did okay, despite them being AU versions of themselves. I might write a sequel to this if the inspiration strikes; we'll see, considering there's room for it, with Billy's story as Jigsaw not having played itself out in this universe as of yet! :) ))


End file.
